


refraction

by demios



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: +every other relevant spoiler for those two, Fluff, Other, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, spoilers for the twinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-28 03:42:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19804003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Though they may be naught but fragmented souls, the warrior reminds him he is still whole.





	refraction

**Author's Note:**

> *eating lore out of the exarch’s hand like a horse* thank you i owe you my life

“It's strange, to grasp the ages from another’s perspective. I've pored over these stories  _ endlessly _ for the sake of research, and while I am intimately familiar with the accounts, to hear them from your lips as one of your many intrepid adventures casts them in a different light.” The Exarch smiles, his voice filled with muted amazement after the warrior has finished relaying the last of their escapades. “It’s enchanting, I must admit.”

In the privacy of the Ocular, G’raha’s soft words are clear over the slight hum of glowing crystals. The warrior rests on a chair beside him as he sifts through his materials, his ever-growing collection of scripture and books. They had but recently returned from their second expedition through the tower and found themselves yearning to speak of the traces of the future they found there.

Though sanctioning the expedition was G’raha’s indirect way of allowing the truth of the tower to finally come to light to the people of the Crystarium, the warrior wanted to hear of the efforts to traverse the rift from the Exarch himself. Piecing together datalogs and the Ironworks' last message made them restless, and they found themselves ascending the stairs of the tower before they could put the questions into words. G’raha had a patient ear and gladly obliged, asking but one favor - that they, in turn, regale him with their version of the events used to conceive his grand scheme. 

G’raha often painted himself as an old man devoid of vim and vigor, but the warrior notices the youthful glint that’s entered his ruby eyes. It calls to mind days of skirting about the shores of Silvertear, listening to the other recount foreign histories and faraway dreams with cool water lapping at their feet. Always chattering, always moving, always  _ hopeful _ \- the warrior remembers him just as vibrantly, despite the weathered appearance he holds now. 

The constant rustle of well-loved pages is still the same, at least. He rests his hand atop a compilation of worn papers, gaze lowering in thought. “Cid Garlond’s notes are efficient and detailed, as we both know. But one cannot help but feel a spark of wonder when the dry calculations are accompanied by the depth of Mide’s transcendent love, or Alpha’s newfound bravery.” 

“And Nero’s meddling.” The warrior adds dryly. “I doubt that was the last of it, too. Did they ever elope?”

The unexpected question elicits a small laugh from G’raha, the other’s ears flicking as he takes a moment to compose himself. “There may have been  _ some _ mention of the Ironworks founder taking a  _ very  _ loquacious and eccentric partner. If you’d like, I could locate that particular archive for you…”

“No need for that. I’ll take it as a yes, then.” They grin. 

His expression softens as he casts his gaze about the room, walls decorated with gilded stars and crystals. They orbit the vicinity in slow, rhythmic motions, a calming backdrop fit for reminiscing. “There is one more thing I am curious about - by your experience, the primal and ancient weapon were more than just mindless foes to be slain. If Alexander and Omega knew of their powers being used by mortals like this, what would they make of it, I wonder?”

The warrior absently hums, mentally recounting their clashes with them. One summoned out of the desire to create a paradise, another fueled by the desire to return home. How strangely poetic that their respective dreams never came to pass while they yet lived, only to bear fruit when mankind wrote its own fate.

“Alexander, along with Dayan and Mide - I’m certain they would be happy to know the future they entrusted to us would be preserved.” The echo of Alexander’s final judgement always rings in their ears, when they cross the hinterlands and catch a glimpse of the frozen primal resting in the Thaliak River. “And I believe this is the sort of feat that would answer Omega’s question, why we are so frail yet undaunted in our fleeting lives. Would that Emet-Selch had come to the same conclusion…”

The warrior pauses, sparing a moment of reflection for the last of the Ascian’s words. The skeleton of Amaurot sits behind their eyelids still, a foreign grief for a city they never knew occasionally taking form in their chest.

“We do not exist to please Ascians, nor any other lofty being. Our labors have not been in vain and for that, I am full glad.” G’raha says firmly, always assuring them their decision was inevitable. He flexes his crystallized hand, holding it up and watching the lights in the Ocular refract through it. “When the tower was sent across the rift, I did not feel like a hero, even though fate weighed heavy upon my shoulders. My breast was filled to the brim with fear and doubt, and oddly enough - hope. Hope that you would believe in a future where you and yours saw the light of day, and that you would seize it, wrest it from the clutches of oblivion. No sacrifice was too great to ensure you saw the morrow, even if it meant forsaking myself.”

“...Does it hurt?” They ask, unwilling to let themselves be swayed by his open admiration. Despite his freely effusive praise for the warrior, G’raha rarely talked about himself, let alone what ailed him.

He retracts his arm and turns to them, a wan smile touching his lips. “There aren't any nerve endings in the crystal, so I cannot say it does. You're free to examine to your heart’s content.” 

They tentatively reach out for his hand, taking it in their own. The warrior shivers slightly when the cold crystal meets warm skin. True to its appearance, it is the same as the jagged formations clustered around Eorzea, rough surface sculpted into the semblance of fingers. Though they say nothing, the questions are writ plain on their face. G’raha clears his throat, if only to create a less awkward atmosphere when the warrior is so fixed on him. 

“Years ago, when the Crystarium was still growing, Chessamile was the first to take an interest in my condition. She was studying to become a chirurgeon, you see. Ailments of all sorts caught her eye because of her passion for healing.” The warrior listens to him intently as he speaks, noting how the aether hovering beneath the crystal has become diluted with a distant fondness. “Granted, it was not as extensive as what you see before you. A fleck here, a budding gem there - ere long it spread and consumed my hand, then my arm. I told her it was an incurable affliction of my homeland, but I know she always worries over me, especially with my reckless performances as of late.”

The crystal moves without urgency, like the magicked material of a talos, when he drums his fingers in their palm. It is accompanied by the faint sound of stone chafing against stone, as if the worn surface might crack with too much effort. The warrior traces over the ringbands embedded in his flesh like veins, wondering if he was being entirely truthful in saying it wasn't painful. 

G’raha is not unfamiliar with their taciturn intensity, but he cannot last recall when it was directed at him in full. During their excursion in Mor Dhona, perhaps, when he was young and brash, showcasing his knowledge of Allag while they were a captive audience among humming crystals. But the years have made him modest - he fidgets with the material of his robe some for a measure of comfort when their scrutinizing has carried on for too long.

“It's a bit... unsightly, isn't it? I surmise I am more tower than man now, especially given recent developments. Those possessed of Allagan royal blood boasted control over it, yet it seems keen to stake its hold on  _ me. _ ” G’raha sighs deeply with a breath that holds ancient echoes in its release. The warrior imagines he did not have many to confide such anxieties in, given the circumstances. “I’m merely relieved the crystal did not consume me before I could meet you.”

The warrior can lightly feel aether shimmer and coalesce beneath their touch, tinged by wistfulness. G’raha fixes his gaze on where the warrior’s hand meets his own, his murmur just above a whisper.

“How close we are, finally, and I can only half-feel you. I longed to hear your voice, for you to call my name as you did a lifetime ago. And while I should not want for more, I wanted to feel your warmth again, to feel your heartbeat, and the thought of being denied that…” He shakes his head, as if to chase the sudden melancholy away. “Ah - forgive me. I didn't mean to burden you with such frivolous thoughts. ‘Tis blessing enough that you are here and well.”

The confession makes the warrior’s heart twinge, for they cannot fathom how he carried this yearning for centuries; his previously childish overtures with unfaltering bravado have given way to the somber honesty that's made a home in his voice. They give G’raha’s hand a light squeeze to stay him when he makes ready to pull himself back. “Can I try something? Nothing dastardly, mind.”

The faint sorrow recedes, like a startled fish retreating from the shallows. “I trust that you won't harm me, even with another Dwarven slingshot in hand.” 

“How was I to know how sensitive their contraptions are?” The warrior huffs as they edge themselves closer. 

“I don't think you know your own strength, my friend.” He chuckles.

The warrior brings both hands to clasp G’raha’s own, treating it as one would a precious artifact. “Well, a delicate touch may not be my forte with the amount of monster-slaying I do, but I  _ would _ consider myself somewhat of an expert when it comes to attuning to all manner of crystal. Give me a moment here…” 

They smile softly, letting aether dance over their fingertips and focusing on the point of contact. G’raha lets out a short gasp, tensing in surprise. The conductive nature of crystal makes him more susceptible to receiving their offering, their unique essence pervading his senses. It travels along the stone, up his arm, then to where it stems from his chest, wrapping around his core lovingly. 

If he stills himself, he can feel…  _ warmth, _ and the faint semblance of a heartbeat when it swirls and churns with vivacious affections. He ventures an attempt at returning the favor, letting his aether mingle with theirs. The feeling is intimate in a way he cannot place, akin to linking fingers or tracing over a pulse. To know such a thing is not entirely lost on him makes him deeply grateful, more than his repertoire of words can express.

The gentle flow of wispy aether between them ends when they separate, his heart terrifically full.

“Thank you,” He bows his head, closing his eyes, to blink away the forming tears. Old age has made him quite sentimental - or perhaps that's simply the effect his radiant, dearest heart has upon him. “My guiding light in the sunless sea, my eternal muse. Thank you for this gift.”

“Think nothing of it. Though this fate may seek to claim you, you are still whole to me… and I will always be there to remind you of that.” They give that lopsided smile of theirs, always bright and adept at banishing his doubt. “And besides, who else would make me delicious sandwiches?”

The quip makes G’raha’s lips curl upwards wryly. “Well… I could not simply twiddle my thumbs while you were away slaying Lightwardens. And I  _ did  _ promise to make your stay here as comfortable as possible.”

“I daresay you’ve succeeded on that front. You've a talent for it, I think.”

G’raha scoffs, dismissing their claim with a wave of his hand. “I’ve simply had time to refine my craft. I used to make them near-daily for Lyna when she was younger.”

“Really?” They quirk a brow, intrigued.

He beckons them closer, as if to share a dire secret. The silver tips of his hair brush the warrior's cheek when he grins, full of mischief like the day they first met at Saint Coinach’s. “Between you and I, she doesn't openly ask for them anymore like she did when she was a child, but she cannot mask her delight when I’ve the time to fashion her a plate. She tells me it's not proper for the Captain of the Guard to be coddled, nor for an Exarch to humble himself with such a task.”

That draws a laugh from the warrior, who pulls away and stands to their feet.

“Then we ought to prove her wrong, since she's been working harder than ever.” They pause, and extend a hand to the Exarch. “I suppose a trip to the market is in order, then? There's bound to be more interesting ingredients now that trade with Eulmore has been re-established.”

“I look forward to seeing how the great Warrior of Darkness will fare with such a challenge placed before them.” G’raha takes their invitation, his aether flitting with mirth. He doesn't let go until they descend the tower and step into the light of day.


End file.
